Tropos, tropai. Turnings, turning points. Now and rounding right here. And tropes, turns of speech. Quick turn, as a burner, as ‘burner,’ as a lightning bolt. A starter, quick-turning. Sun and earth, fire’s tropai. Turning points of fire: fire’s turnings. The changing exchanges. In turns of speech, meaning also ways and manners. The way and manner of fire: as earth, as sea… Fire is and becomes these elements. Turning one into the other and over and again. Pivotally. Sun at solstice. Round about the ecliptic. With meaning hinted at elliptically, relevant down through the ambiguities. Nothing hidden hindering. There are, though, secret helpings. Portions, proportions, pouring forth to each a fate and faith. These, from and with “seasons that bring all things.” Limits in cyclicity, the arc of the turn, pivotal points. Oscillation, the energy in matter, down to atoms, down to the action in subatomic particles. Seasons in microsecond.

The sun shares with the chief and primal God the job of setting bounds to the changes and seasons that bring all things.

Bounding. A job. The illimitable, as much needing limits and measure in the infinitesimal as in immense magnitude. Extreme points of oscillation, in oscillation. Casting light upon this, clear of day sunlight, by a ray and / or a wave. It changes by the moment. But will be final for that instant, for instance(s), upon examination. When the results are in. Turning them in. Turning end results in, though immediately to begin again. The battle. Tropai, a rout, earliest meaning of the word: the point where one side in bloody confrontation turns and runs. The root, a turning point in battle. The turning, the shifting. Inextricable, the physical and the spiritual, herein. Right there and then, here and now, and how, cause of the turning point, inherent, either preponderance of force or loss of morale. Fatal instant. Decisive: from that point in a battle, to that point in a campaign, to that point in a war. Extending in importance, historically. Air, fire’s turning into aeon-inspiriting pneuma. Courage for it, inspiration. Requires openness. Has to do with generosity. Some courage, some openness, a surge: The Turning. Generosity internal, opposite of stinginess of soul: i.e., can identify with greatness and victory and splendor and glory, rather than envy all that. Divine glory, golden, godly. Be generous! …Napoleon’s harangue to his soldiers. Has to do with the higher pride. A surge of morale. Taking the moral high ground, with what is willed and dared. To heed the Logos, as Heraclitus would say; to dare to turn towards divinity in whatever form. The Turning, a surge of the divine. And turning-away is a withdrawal of the divine. The Turning is primary, and primal. A turning-away is also primal, but secondary, a loss marked by increasing absence. Night crunching away at the moon. Light of the moon merely reflected fire, the sun at second hand, blanched by encroaching darkness. Needs renewal each day of the month, however thin this whited splinter.

The Turning is a waxing

turning-away is a waning

The Turning is in the form of turning-towards. Drives the whole, steers the starry chariot. A turning-away is in opposition and rebellion to it, in resistance at least. Causing sparks of friction. It too has its motive and start in the divine. But now mere echo of that trumpet blast. Reaction to the action, without the latter’s full motive force. Reflux pushes against the flux. Regurgitation, wrong way flow. Daylight, seasons, sundials, orbits, clocks, and tides: markings of time having the quality of turning so as to provide intimations of a deeper, more inward, Turning. But it all happens in the stillness of an instant. A turning-towards, as the form of The Turning, is attunement to the divine; turning-away is disconnection from the divine, at worst rebellion and sin and horror, at best a continuance of a divine impulse, but off-track and abating: these, in terms of mortal orientation to The Turning. The Turning itself is the approach of the divine, as turning-towards. The divine is The Turning, and in its action it is always turning-towards, yet also always with the possible appearance and effect of turning-away… Depending upon each mortal orientation. Which way a person’s facing…a person’s face, and facings. A turning-towards the truth; it takes a degree of pride and game, a surge of will and courage in the moment. The Turning, each turning, is destiny-filled, destiny-replete. In quietness, with a tinny subaudible din, taken in unawares, perceived somehow, but unheard and unnoticed, as background noise, tintinnabulation of cosmic chimes. Very even and ignorable. Eerie, encoded. Hearing it, as one comes to. Something uneven, turned. In this it happens. Comes up. Arises, upwells, rolls towards. The Turning is what is ordered by the universe, by the quiet. In the quiet. What is ordained. The Turning is the ordering. Waiting doesn’t make it happen, but only in stillness can it be perceived. Waiting doesn’t make it happen. It will turn when it wills, or is willed. By the moment. It is momentous, this Turning. Most personal, and private. Always one’s own turning, ever alone and one’s own. Possessed by the moment, by the here and now. Personal. Private. Pivotal. The universe, the self, the unwobbling pivot. What’s expected of each person. So much more expected. Beyond free will, prior and primal… It’s The Turning. In fact, the one and only choice. As for freedom, the only point of freedom is so that one can freely turn. Turning-towards. It’s what’s awaiting each individual. Around the corner, this next moment, this closest future. Around the curve. A home-coming, cosmic, coming into acceptance. The advent of a destiny, an embrace, an assent to each individuality and present. Not an ascent: an assent, acceptance, a turn.